


Out of our hands

by faithtastic



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crack, F/F, Femslash, Fpreg, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>F!Hawke gets impregnated. Feelings ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of our hands

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime during Act III. Inspired by a prompt on the DA Kink Meme.

There comes a day during the height of summer, while the city bakes and sweats under the sweltering Solice sun, that Hawke ventures to Darktown without her usual retinue of companions. She's aware of the darkly envious stares of the beggars and vagrants, the poor and desperate as she picks her way through the muck and puddles of filth towards the clinic; it's a far cry from the fawning attention she receives at the decadent parties amongst the Hightown nobility and merchant class and she isn't sure which discomfits her more.

They're undoubtedly wondering why Hawke, with her not inconsiderable wealth and means, would be seen dead at a makeshift clinic run by a known apostate. While it's true she could consult any healer of her choosing, it's Anders she trusts implicitly to be discreet. Because if anyone was to discover that the Champion of Kirkwall, the person everyone looks to in containing hostilities between the Templars and the Circle of Magi, was in anything less than perfect health then the delicate political situation would go from bad to worse.

Not that this - being a bit under the weather - is anything to worry about, she's sure; she just doesn't want to needlessly concern her friends.

Anders looks up, surprised, as Hawke strolls into the clinic alone. He finishes dispensing potions to a mother and her sickly child before approaching the brunette mage.

“Finally given our dear guard-captain the slip, have you?”

Hawke gives a wan smile. “For the time being. Actually... I'm here to seek your expert opinion.”

Anders frowns as he pulls her aside to a more secluded corner. “Oh?”

“It's probably nothing but lately I've been feeling nauseous every day. It's usually smells that set me off – the docks, Uncle Gamlen's breath, Varric's cologne, that sort of thing.”

“Hm. How's your appetite?”

“Voracious. It's the strangest thing, I can't seem to get enough of the stew at the Hanged Man and you know that I can't abide mystery meat.”

Anders's expression shifts subtly. “Anything else?”

“This is embarrassing but,” she pauses, casting her eyes around to make sure none of the other patients languishing in the clinic are within earshot, “my breasts are swollen and there's... a prickling sensation in my nipples.”

“I see,” Anders nods, the slight blush creeping up his neck the only thing betraying his otherwise inscrutably professional demeanour.

“And - I haven't bled in over a month and a half. Anders, I'm not ignorant. Mother told me of these things and, dear Maker, if I didn't know any better I'd think I was -”

“Pregnant,” he concludes.

Just hearing it aloud from someone else makes Hawke feel deeply uneasy.

“The sickness, the cravings and aversions, the physical changes your body is undergoing are all classic symptoms of pregnancy.” He takes her hands warmly. “Congratulations, it seems you're going to be a mother, Hawke. Do I know the father-to-be?”

Hawke's eyes slide shut as she sighs. “Yes, you know her.”

“I - I'm sorry, did you just say...?”

“Her,” Hawke confirms with a nod, opening her eyes again to see Anders gaping at her. “It's Isabela's.”

There's a stunned silence for a moment then, “You're quite... sure about that?”

Hawke bristles at the implication and shirks off his grip. “I haven't been with anyone else, not for months.”

“Yes, of course. I didn't mean – forgive me.” He holds up a conciliatory hand. “I need to do some research on this, find out if there's any precedent. In the meantime, you should take things easy and get plenty of rest.”

She raises one incredulous eyebrow. Rest? When Meredith and Orsino are at each other's throat and everyone expects her to mediate? She heaves a weary sigh. “I'll try.”

 

***

  
That night – the night of the _conception_ – had been different, it's obvious in hindsight.

The pace was more sedate than she's come to expect from Isabela, touches lingering and light as they undressed, their kisses less a battle of dominance. Maybe it was the sentiment behind the gift, the talisman, that lay behind it but all Hawke knew was that it was unexpected and she liked it very much.

She remembers how heightened everything had felt then; warm kisses lavished on her neck and back; the twin graze of hard nipples against her skin as heavy breasts swayed above her; the gentle nudge of a knee to signal to Hawke to spread her legs wider; three fingers stretching and filling her as Isabela took her with slow, deep strokes from behind. Isabela's other hand had been everywhere at once, teasing and caressing her breasts before dipping between her legs to ghost over her clit, the barely there touch making the mage quiver with need.

Hawke remembers how, so close to the peak of her release, she'd said, “Wait. Please – I want to see you.”

A bit of repositioning later and Isabela was back on top, fingers resuming their leisurely rhythm, the Rivaini putting the weight of her hips behind each thrust as she hit that sweet spot every glorious time.

Hawke remembers looking up at the other woman, seeing something inexplicably shift in those amber eyes. It made Hawke reach up, tracing shaking fingers over Isabela's cheek before letting her hand slip to the valley between her breasts, where the talisman clung to sweat-dampened skin.

She remembers thinking, with sudden clarity and conviction, as her fingers had sought purchase on the necklace: _I love this woman_.

Her release had hit her like the slam of a telekinetic burst.

 

***

  
“I'm... with child.”

Everyone pauses, spoons, forks or goblets hovering mid-way to their mouths. The meal Orana had prepared goes untouched as those blurted words hang in the air.

Aveline is first to recover. “But aren't you and Isabela...?”

Hawke smiles weakly. “Well, that's just it. It would appear that Isabela is, for lack of a better word, the father.”

Even now, having had days to agonise over and ultimately accept her predicament, acknowledging the fact aloud makes Hawke feel daunted. In the course of the past few years she's survived the Deep Roads, countless attempts on her life and duelled a giant bloody Qunari and none of that had filled her with as much uncertainty as the thought of the life growing inside her.

Aveline barks with sudden laughter, startling them all. “And that wench accuses _me_ of being mannish! At least I've never knocked anyone up.”

“To your knowledge,” says Fenris, which earns him a glower.

With no small measure of trepidation Hawke allows herself to examine her other friends' expressions in turn; Anders gives her a supportive nod, Merrill looks positively misty-eyed, Varric seems in a trance and Fenris is just as brooding as always. It's perhaps just as well Sebastian's been detained at the Chantry this evening, since he'd either declare it a miracle sent from the Maker himself or condemn her to damnation. Isabela, mercifully, is yet to arrive.

“Mythal, a baby! It's ever so romantic!” Merrill coos, placing her chin on her hands as she gazes wistfully towards Hawke. “Have you thought of any names yet?”

“It's an affront, witch,” Fenris mutters, stabbing at the slab of veal on his plate. “Trust a _mage_ to do something this perverse.”

Varric finally pipes up. “Wait, so this isn't some elaborate joke? You're really up the spout, got a bun in the oven, eating for two, in the family way, in the clu-”

“You have such a way with words, Varric,” Aveline says drily.

“Trust me, Red, plenty more where that came from.”

“It's true, she's pregnant,” says Anders.

There's a lull as they absorb the news then Merrill speaks again, “Have you told her yet, then?”

On Hawke's hesitant shake of her head, Aveline chuckles. “Oh, I would pay good coin to witness _that_ conversation.”

Fenris snorts. “As would I.”

“Can we just drop it for now, please?” Hawke says hurriedly as she spots Orana leading the woman in question into the dining room.

Isabela narrows her eyes at the hushed laughter and cleared throats that greet her as she takes the empty chair beside Hawke. “What?”

“Nothing,” they all say, practically in chorus.

The Rivaini sighs. “Shit, what am I supposed to have done now? I swear, I haven't stolen anything recently. Nothing of _importance_ , anyway.”

“It's not for me to say, though your repertoire of skills is more impressive that I realised,” Aveline smirks, causing Varric to almost choke on his mouthful of ale and Merrill to giggle uncontrollably.

“What?” Isabela says, brow now wrinkled in confusion as she eyes them all warily.

“Um... Isabela, could we talk in private?” Hawke says quickly, realising this dinner is only going to become more awkward as it wears on.

“Sweetness, we can do _anything_ you like,” Isabela purrs, eyes flashing with mischievous intent. “But right now I'm famished. Can't it wait until dessert?”

“Not really, no.”

As they leave the table, the distinct sound of ribald laughter follows them, causing Isabela to glance sharply over her shoulder.

 

***

  
“Look, if it's about that brawl in the tavern the other night you can tell Lady Manhands that I didn't start it. This time.”

Hawke runs a hand over her eyes. “It's not that. Oh, that it were.”

Seeing the other woman's apparent discomfort Isabela steps closer, concern etched on her features. “Did something happen?”

A mirthless laugh escapes the mage's throat. “In a manner of speaking.” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself for that giant leap into the unknown. “I'm expecting.”

“Expecting what?”

“A _child_ , Isabela. I'm pregnant.”

The pirate laughs. “You're shitting me.” Then realising the deadly solemnity with which Hawke is staring at her, her smile slips. A quick succession of emotions flit across her face, too rapidly for Hawke to identify. “Oh... I – I thought we weren't seeing other people any more. We agreed, didn't we? I thought-”

“We're not. I'm not,” Hawke says emphatically.

“Then – how?”

Hawke sits on the edge of her writing desk. “I'm just as surprised as you are.”

She watches as Isabela braces one arm against the mantle of the fireplace, the other hand rising to rub at her forehead. Pushing off from the desk, Hawke approaches the other woman slowly. “I know this is a lot to take in, believe me I'm struggling with it myself. Are you... all right?”

“I need a drink, that's all,” the Rivaini mutters. “This must be what sobriety feels like.”

“Isabela...” Hawke lifts her hand, meaning to provide reassurance but Isabela pulls away sharply, a look of sudden panic flooding her eyes.

“I'm sorry, I need to go. I – I need time to to think.”

Hawke nods, trying to stifle the hurt she feels. “Okay. I understand. We'll talk later.”

If Isabela heard her, Hawke isn't sure, because the other woman darts towards the entrance to the mansion and doesn't look back once.

 

***

  
Two months pass without sight nor sound of Isabela and Hawke begins to resign herself to the fact that she'll be raising this child on her own. Merrill and Varric both try to keep her spirits up and she knows that her friends will rally round to help however they can but she still feels alone with this burden.

It's Aveline's suggestion to turn the vacant room that was once her Mother's into a nursery. At first Hawke resists the idea, the thought of disturbing Mother's belongings feels like a betrayal somehow.

“It's what Leandra would want,” Aveline tells her on one visit to the mansion, as they stand on the threshold of the room. It always looks as though her Mother's just popped out to the market and will be back at any moment. “Make something happy out of this space. You've mourned long enough and you don't need ornaments or clothes to remind you that you loved her.”

“When did you get to be so wise?” muses Hawke after a long silence.

“I always have been. You just never listened.”

 

***

  
Merrill helps her decorate the nursery, painting a beautiful mural on one wall. She paints the city and the Waking Sea beyond, a lone ship cresting the waves on the horizon.

“She'll be back, eventually. You'll see,” Merrill says, adding the finishing touches to the ship's sails using a tiny brush, and Hawke can't bring herself to quash her friend's optimism.

“Maybe,” Hawke allows, rubbing at the growing bulge of her belly.

 

***

  
Then, one day early in Harvestmere, Varric sends word that Isabela's been seen at the Hanged Man; her usual spot, propping up the bar.

She thinks about waiting, making Isabela stew in her own guilt but the urge to go to her is like a physical pull that Hawke is unable to resist.

That first sight of her is akin to a punch to the gut, the feeling not dissimilar to the last time Isabela did her disappearing act following the Qunari debacle. Anger wars with relief as Hawke watches the pirate knocking back a mug of whiskey, oblivious to those around her.

Hawke thinks about leaving, is about to, when Isabela glances over her shoulder, gaze settling on the mage. The haunted look of regret in Isabela's eyes propels Hawke forward until, before she knows it, she's standing at the other woman's side.

She catches the way Isabela's wide eyes dip to Hawke's protruding stomach, clearly showing beneath her robes. For someone who's nearly four months along, she looks considerably more pregnant, more like six months gone. And she has the cursed backache to go along with it.

“Shall we...?” Isabela nods towards a vacant table at the back of the tavern. When they're seated, Hawke feels the other woman's appraising stare on her. “It suits you, you know, pregnancy. You're glowing.”

“Don't try to flirt your way out of this,” Hawke says in a clipped tone. “You left. For two months I didn't know whether you were alive or dead.”

Isabela lowers her gaze and looks away, suitably chastised. When she speaks, her voice is almost inaudible above the din of raucous conversation going on elsewhere in the tavern. “I'm sorry. For leaving.”

“I should be used to it by now.”

“Oh, touché... but I suppose I deserve that.”

“Just tell me why.”

Isabela meets her eyes again and it's a mixture of fear and uncertainty Hawke sees reflected back at her. For all her bravado, Isabela's a coward when it comes to matters of the heart. “I warned you, years ago, that I don't _do_ feelings. I've always been a strictly get-some-get-gone kind of girl. But you wore down my defences, got under my skin, and I – I got scared. As you know, I'm prone to do questionable things when that happens.”

The Rivaini leans forward, one hand coming to rest on Hawke's on the whiskey-stained table. A calloused thumb sweeps gently over her knuckles and with that simple gesture, Hawke's ire starts to dissipate even though she feels she ought to cling to it a while longer, that she shouldn't let this woman off so easily. “For most of my life I've had only myself to rely on. Those finely honed self-preservation instincts have saved my skin more times than I'd care to mention. But things are different now; I have you to consider.”

“And in about five months time a child.”

“About that...” Isabela begins sheepishly. “I think your... current condition has something to do with the fertility talisman.”

It's then that Hawke notices the pirate's chosen to forgo her usual heavy gold neck-piece and in its place the talisman nestles snugly between her cleavage. Given its connotations, given their history, that must mean something.

“Remember I told you about my mother?” Isabela continues.

“Yes.”

“The thing is, I always dismissed everything the old bat said as the demented ramblings of a drink-addled mind but I do vaguely recall hearing something about the combined effect of these talismans, the correct alignment of the constellations and intense feelings during the act of sex sometimes enabling hitherto barren couples to become fruitful.” The Rivaini shakes her head. “Shit, I just never paid much attention because I never thought it was true.”

“It doesn't matter _how_. The inescapable fact is that there's a child on the way and now we have to deal with the consequences.”

Isabela's fingers tighten around Hawke's own. “I know. And I – I want to do the right thing by you; I'm not going to shirk my responsibilities this time.”

It sounds sincere and Hawke wants to believe her but she's been burnt one too many times, having given the other woman every opportunity to prove Hawke's faith in her is warranted. “Isabela...”

“No, hear me out. I'm not the best role model for a child – Aveline will gladly testify to that – but I could teach her lots of things, like how to stab out a man's eyes at twenty paces; the principles of sailing and navigation; how to win at cards; plus I know at least twenty different kinds of knots.”

There's something so compelling about Isabela's sudden enthusiasm that Hawke feels her doubts rapidly melting away, despite her better judgement.

“If you insisted, I'd even give it all up and take a job at that hat shop in Low-”

“I don't want you to change who you are,” Hawke interrupts. “Well, perhaps you could refrain from recounting your more _colourful_ exploits in front of our daughter. And I'm not sure about the appropriateness of teaching her how to stab a man's eyes out.”

Isabela rolls her eyes but her voice softens, “Fine. No sex talk and no stabbing.”

They share a long look, one that speaks of forgiveness, acceptance and tentative hope.

“So, these intense feelings you mentioned -”

A groan escapes Isabela's lips. “I should've known you'd pick up on that.”

“Does that mean that I've won the heart of a pirate queen, finally?”

“I've been in love with you for years,” Isabela says, surprising the mage by not sidestepping the teasing question. “I thought you knew that, even if I didn't.”

Hawke smiles, for what seems like the first time in months. Then she leans across the table, despite the obstructive bulk of her belly, and brings her lips to Isabela's; she kisses Isabela, long and sweet, not caring a jot that the entire tavern is staring.

 

***

  
In the nursery, they hang a wind chime – a gift from Aveline and Donnic – or, rather, Isabela hangs it from the top of a ladder while Hawke supervises.

“A little more to the right,” Hawke says, purposefully ignoring the way Isabela huffs. It glints as it catches the light, casting sunbeams across the room. “Perfect.” She takes the opportunity to admire the shapely curve of Isabela's rear as she climbs down the ladder, the short tunic affording a tantalising glimpse of black undergarments that leave little to the imagination. “And the wind chime's not bad either.”

Isabela casts a sly look over her shoulder, knowing full well where Hawke's eyes have strayed, and adds a little extra sway to her hips as she descends.

She saunters over to Hawke, smirking as she leans against the wall. “You never used to be this brazen. Not that I'm complaining.”

Hawke steps closer, gazing at the other woman from under her lashes, watching Isabela's eyes shift to take in the swell of cleavage peeking from her robe before lifting to meet her stare again. The magnetic pull of desire between them is almost tangible and it makes the mage's skin prickle. “I suppose you've corrupted me.”

Isabela's lips twitch at the corners. “Oh, I should like to corrupt you often and repeatedly.”

Then she pushes off from the wall and advances, trapping Hawke between the window and the Rivaini's firm body. Hands braced on either side of Hawke's shoulders, palms flat against the glass pane, Isabela rubs against her like a cat in heat.

“Isabela...” Hawke says, breath catching in her throat as lips trace a warm path across her jaw to her earlobe before nipping and kissing down the side of her neck. She tilts her head without thought, allowing the other woman easier access and feels an answering smile against her skin.

The combination of Isabela's mouth on her and the not-so-subtle rotation of hips grinding into her own makes heat pool rapidly between the mage's legs. “Isabela,” she says, trying to focus on something other than the ripples of pleasure running through her, “we shouldn't – not here...”

She knows she ought to put a stop to this; wantonly rutting in the room where their future child will sleep, where _Mother_ slept, is wrong but she can't bring herself to push the Rivaini away. Isabela ignores her anyway, hands dropping to the hem of Hawke's robe, dipping under the fine wool to rake blunt nails up the sensitive skin of her outer thighs.

“Isabela,” she tries again, only to be silenced by Isabela's mouth taking her own. Moments later she feels the brush of fingers between her legs, the abundant wetness gathered there making Isabela purr in delight. Two fingers glide into Hawke easily, the sudden intrusion making her gasp, and Isabela licks into her mouth as she starts to move her hand.

 _Oh, Maker_ , Hawke thinks, abandoning all pretence of trying to resist. Instead she wraps her arms around Isabela's shoulders, pulling her closer as she lets their tongues entwine.

 

***

  
“Hawke.”

The mage stirs, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. “Mm?”

She isn't sure how long she's been dozing but the sky is dark, a crescent moon visible from the bedroom window. She's perfectly comfortable and warm in Isabela's arms, the pirate holding her from behind, and it strikes her suddenly that they're _spooning_. She's fairly certain that's a first.

Isabela's hand comes to the pronounced swell of Hawke's bump, rubbing circles tenderly over soft skin. “Our daughter...” she begins, and Hawke hears the way the other woman's voice cracks slightly on the last syllable, “have you thought about what you want to name her?”

Hawke rolls over to face Isabela, allowing herself to just look at the Rivaini for a moment, so beautifully unguarded as she is right now. She hopes their daughter has Isabela's eyes. “If it's all right with you I'd like to call her Bethany.”

She rarely speaks of her sister now, or of her death, but she knows Bethany would've appreciated the sentiment.

“I like it,” Isabela says with a simple nod. “Bethany, it is.”

They regard each other in contented silence, affection brimming between them until it becomes too much; Hawke brings her face nearer, close enough that all she has to do is tilt her chin up to kiss Isabela.

After a few minutes of exploring the velvety softness of the Isabela's mouth, Hawke pulls back. "We should probably come up with a second name. Just in case."

A single wrinkle settles between Isabela's brows. "Just in case what?"

"Well, twins do run in my family." It's a likely possibility, given how big she is already, that she's carrying more than one. Although she was very young at the time, she clearly remembers Mother being similarly large with Bethany and Carver at this stage...

The look of abject horror on the other woman's face almost makes Hawke laugh.

She brings her hand to Isabela's bare hip, stroking reassuringly. The last thing she needs is Isabela doing a runner again. Despite everything, it's still a legitimate concern.

"Andraste's tits!" Isabela mutters, half under her breath. Then she shakes her head and laughs. "We don't do anything by halves, do we?"

"And... you're all right with that?" Hawke ventures carefully.

Isabela gives her a look, as if she can read the doubts that the mage harbours. She cups a hand to Hawke's cheek, bringing their lips together for a brief but potent kiss. "I love you. And I'll love our children whether there's one, two or ten of them."

This time it's Hawke who blanches. " _Ten_?" She wonders if Aveline and Donnic will take a few off her hands.

"I must be pretty damn virile if I was capable of getting you knocked up in the first place," Isabela winks. "Just think! We could have a family crew sailing the ocean."

Hawke just covers her eyes and groans.


End file.
